


Room 11A

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Humor, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-29
Updated: 2007-05-29
Packaged: 2018-09-06 01:26:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8729254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: "Sam glances around nervously, his eyes darting out the window and onto the highway. 'Hurry up,' he says, and he's right. They're not far enough away yet. Not even close."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Title** \- Room 11A  
**Pairing** \- Sam/Dean  
**Rating** \- NC17  
**Word Count** \- 5250  
**Spoilers** \- through episode 2.19  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**From _Folsom Prison Blues_ :**  
  
**Sam** : _Thought we were screwed before._   
**Dean** : _Yeah yeah, I know. We gotta go deep this time._   
**Sam** : _"Deep"? Dean. We should go to Yemen._   
**Dean** : _Ooh, I'm not sure I'm ready to go that deep._   
  
  
_**Room 11A**_  
  
  
Dean fills the tank of the Impala just outside of Little Rock, and they don't stop again until they're nearly out of gas.   
  
The next station has a store attached. Dean stocks up on coffee and doughnuts, a bag of Twizzlers and some oat, nut, granola crap that Sam likes, while Sam takes a piss and washes his face in the men's room. He comes out with his hair slicked back, looking a little more awake. Dean nods and tells him to wait in the car while he takes a leak and washes up himself.   
  
Sam glances around nervously, his eyes darting out the window and onto the highway. "Hurry up," he says, and he's right. They're not far enough away yet. Not even close.   
  
Dean pisses and washes his hands and that's it. He can make himself pretty in another few hundred miles.   
  
*  
  
They drive southeast, clear through Mississippi and don't stop until they hit the edge of Alabama. They eat and piss and wash up in dirty gas station bathrooms, catching a few hours of sleep every once in a while at the edge of a rest stop or the side of a quiet stretch of highway.   
  
Dean lets Sam drive, and doesn't complain when he blares eighties pop-rock the whole time. Rules are rules, after all.   
  
In Florence, Alabama, Dean hits the wall.   
  
"Sam. Sammy." He reaches over and shoves Sam's thigh. Sam's driving on auto-pilot. He has been for the past who knows how many miles. "Dude, we gotta stop."  
  
Sam rubs a hand over his face. They both need a good shower and a shave, maybe some hot food if they're lucky.   
  
"We gotta keep going, Dean. Put some distance between us and Henrickson."  
  
"I know, Sam, but dead on the side of the road isn't the kind of distance I'm thinking of."  
  
Sam doesn't agree but he doesn't argue either. When the turnoff sign for the Silver Swan Inn pops up a few miles down the road, Sam puts on the blinker and pulls off the highway and into the small, gravel parking lot.   
  
*  
  
Dean rents the room for a week while Sam huffs in the car. "I think we should have gone farther," he says when Dean hands him the spare key.   
  
"Yeah, well, if wishes were horses, Sammy." Dean has no idea what that means but it sounds good.   
  
He can feel Sam staring at him. "That doesn't make sense."   
  
Dean gives him the finger. "Shut up, dickhead."  
  
He parks the car around the back of the building, hidden from view by overgrown bushes and weeds. They grab their packs and weapons, and open the door to room 11A.   
  
The décor is seventies rustic, with an over-abundance of orange and gold shag. The bedspreads are red and ugly, the furniture dark wood scratched to shit.   
  
Dean drops his bag on the floor and faceplants onto the bed closest to the door. "Home sweet home, Sammy," he mumbles, and sleeps for twelve hours straight.   
  
*  
  
Dean wakes up to the sound of the shower running and every muscle in his body screaming. He's so dirty he can actually smell himself, and what he's smelling isn't anything good. His face itches from stubble and his mouth tastes like he fell asleep sucking on a dirty ashtray.   
  
If Sam's using all the hot water then Dean won't be held responsible for his actions.   
  
The shower stops, and a few minutes later Sam walks out in a cloud of steam. Dean can smell cheap motel soap and shampoo, Sam's aftershave. Sam smells good, and Dean chalks up his morning wood to the fact that last night was the first decent sleep he's gotten in days. He decides to jerk off in the shower at least twice before he even thinks about getting on with the rest of his day.   
  
Sam's rubbing a towel over his head. When Dean looks up, Sam chucks it across the room, missing him by about three feet.   
  
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Glad you got better aim than that when you need it."  
  
"Blow me." Sam's voice is scratchy and rough. Dean watches as he shoves a baseball hat on his head and a pair of sunglasses on his face. He palms Dean's keys and crosses the room to peer out the orange, brocade curtains.   
  
"On our way in here I thought I saw a place to grab some food. I'm gonna head out and pick up a few things." He turns around and looks at Dean, mouth curving in a smirk. "You should shower. You smell like something died."  
  
"You should eat me," Dean says, grabbing his dick and smirking in Sam's direction. "'Cause I said so."  
  
Sam rolls his eyes and slams the door on his way out.  
  
*  
  
Sam gets back an hour later carrying three bags of food and a twelve pack of orange soda under his arm. "I got other stuff in the trunk," he says, and Dean nods and heads out to help carry in a case of water, some more sodas, and three bags of tacos.  
  
When the car is empty, Sam drives it back around the building and Dean sets up the tacos and two sodas on the table by the window. He rips open a bag of Fritos and puts a few napkins on the right hand side of his and Sam's food. Sam walks in and locks the door behind him.   
  
"I saw a few cop cars on the road when I was on my way back from the store." He drops into a chair and eats an entire taco in three bites. "We definitely need to hole up for a while. I got enough crap for us for a few days at least. We can run out maybe once a day for pizza or something at night." A piece of lettuce flies from his mouth as he talks. Dean flicks it with his thumb and forefinger and it whaps the corner of Sam's chin.   
  
"You're gross," Dean tells him, then makes a slurping sound as he eats his own taco.   
  
"Not grosser than you." Sam waits until Dean looks up, then opens his mouth to show Dean all the chewed up food in it. Dean lunges over the table and shoves three fingers past Sam's lips, making him choke and gag. Sam's chair slides back and Dean gives one quick look to make sure the table's not going to topple over, before he pushes Sam's chair to the ground and grabs his brother in a headlock.   
  
"Quit it! Stop, Dean! You're such a fucking-"  
  
"Say uncle." Dean tightens his arm around Sam's throat and flips them until he's pinning Sam to the floor. Sam's eyes are watering and there are hunks of their dinner scattered all over the rug. Dean grins and Sam coughs, rolls his eyes.   
  
"You're an asshole," Sam tells him.   
  
Dean keeps Sam in a headlock and mashes his knuckles against Sam's skull. "Yep."  
  
*  
  
Dean's not an idiot. He knows how supremely fucked they are. He's going to fix it, though, and in the meantime he doesn't need Sam freaking out about anything. Sam can manage to turn a hangnail into the Single Worst Thing Ever, and Dean's just not in the mood.   
  
They clean up from dinner as best they can (Sam bitching the whole time) and then Dean starts poking through the bags of stuff Sam bought. Pretzels and chips and whatever's now left of the Fritos, but in addition to that he got a bunch of stuff that Dean would want. Chocolate covered doughnuts, a box of Ring Dings, a bag of peanut M &M's as big as Dean's head.  
  
Dean looks over to where Sam's flipping channels on the bed. Sam's trying not to watch, but there's a muscle in his jaw twitching, and Dean can tell he's trying to act like it doesn't matter. That it's no big deal that he did a nice thing.   
  
"Hey." Dean waits until Sam looks at him then holds the bag of M&M's in the air. "Thanks."  
  
Sam blows it off. Flips Dean the bird and leaves the TV on the Discovery channel.   
  
Dean laughs quietly to himself and doesn't complain. Sam did a nice thing and Dean appreciates it. He figures he can watch the ancient underwater mating rituals of the duck-billed platypus if that's what Sam wants.   
  
For an hour at least.  
  
*  
  
After that they watch three hours of Cheers reruns on Nick-at-Nite, then fall asleep until dawn. In the morning they get up, shower, and watch Looney Tunes while eating half the box of doughnuts.   
  
Sam surfs the net and Dean takes a nap. When he wakes up he goes into the bathroom, locks the door, and jerks off on the Victoria's Secret catalog he snuck in under his pant leg, the fingers of his left hand sweating on the slick, glossy page of the magazine, his dick hard and slippery in his right. When he comes he bites his lip to try to keep from making any noise, but he can still hear Sam huff and mutter, "Jesus Christ," from the other side of the door.   
  
He washes his hands in the sink and walks out smiling.   
  
"What?" Sam won't look at him. His jaw is locked tight; fingers white where they're curled around the remote. "Oh, come on, Sammy. Lighten the fuck up."  
  
"You're such an asshole."  
  
Dean flops back on the bed and grins up at the ceiling. He feels better. More relaxed, a little tired again, maybe. "Bite me, Sam."  
  
When the bathroom door slams shut a minute later, Dean laughs.   
  
*  
  
When Dean wakes up again they play poker, eat the rest of the doughnuts, and get annoyed at each other.   
  
"How long have we been stuck in this room?" Dean throws his cards on the bed, the Ace of Hearts flipping picture side up. He was losing anyway.   
  
Sam scoops the pennies and leftover cigarettes Dean's betting with into his own pot and says, "One day."  
  
" _One day_? Jesus." Dean flops back onto the pillow and rubs his fists against his eyes. He's never been good at hiding out. Staying in one place isn't something that Dean ever wanted to do. So this - the idea of him and Sam stuck in this room for who the fuck knows how much longer - "Fuck, Sammy. Too much more of this and I'm gonna lose my frickin' mind."  
  
"Dean. It's been _one day_. We've got…" Sam spreads his hands wide. He's wearing an old, green flannel with the sleeves rolled up and navy sweatpants. Dean watches him for a minute then looks away. "We've got a hell of a lot longer to hole up, so if you're gonna freak out-"  
  
"I'm not freaking out."  
  
"Then get over it and move the fuck on"   
  
Dean licks his bottom lip and chews on the inside of his cheek. "Fine. Whatever." He sits up and grabs the remote from under Sam's knee. He'll show him.   
  
A few quick clicks and then Dean's pressing enter on the dirty pay-per-view channel without even registering the name of the movie in his brain. Something about someone named Wet Wendy. Not that it makes a difference. Dean's cranky and when he's cranky he wants porn. It's a simple equation.   
  
"You're so predictable," Sam sighs. He pulls the nightstand drawer out and drops the cards and all their winnings into it with one sweep of his arm. By the time the drawer is shoved back into the table, Dean's got his hand down his boxers, his fingers pressed up behind his balls.   
  
"Shut up and leave if you don't like it."   
  
Sam just moves to the other bed and turns off the light. "I'm not gonna lock myself in the bathroom so you can jerk off, assmunch." Then he pretends to be asleep while Dean jerks off to Wet Wendy getting it on with a hot-pink dildo.   
  
*  
  
On the second day Sam decides to venture out again for food, only to come back less than ten minutes later, face white and spooked.   
  
Dean drops the pack of Ring Dings and jumps up from the bed. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing, just-" Sam tosses the keys on the table and runs a hand through his hair. Dean can see the way Sam's taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself. He puts a hand on Sam's arm and squeezes. "There's a cop parked at the end of the block, is all. Figured I'd wait a little bit and try again."  
  
This isn't good. Dean looks around the room. Takes stock of the amount of food they have left. There's still most of the case of water, Dean has a backup bottle of JD in the trunk of the Impala, and the way he figures it, Sam seeing cop cars kind of seals the deal.   
  
Dean walks over and flips all the locks on the door.   
  
"Dean?"  
  
"We're done, Sammy. No one's going anywhere."  
  
Sam shakes his head. "We're gonna need more stuff, Dean, and-"  
  
"We'll order in. Give a fake name, leave the money outside the door, who the fuck knows. It's not a big deal, Sam. Better than going out there and getting picked up for some bullshit."   
  
"You hate this." Sam's voice is quiet, thick. He looks as Dean under the fringe of his bangs, and Dean's heart twists.   
  
Sam's doing this all for _him_. He probably figured that Dean wanted to go out, so he'd go get some food, check out what was going on. Sam knows how much Dean hates being cooped up, but the bottom line is if Sam goes out and gets picked up because he's trying to do something for Dean, Dean will never forgive himself. If he could just shut the fuck up and stop complaining, maybe Sam wouldn't be freaking out so much.   
  
And if they're going to be stuck, Dean's going to make the best of it. For him _and_ Sam.   
  
He grabs the second Ring Ding from the bed and shoves it in his mouth. "I'm fine," Dean says, and a hunk of chocolate cake shoots past his lips. Sam ducks and makes a face like Dean's the grossest thing he's ever seen. Perfect. He smiles and squishes cream out from between his teeth. "See?"  
  
*  
  
Two days pass. Three. By the forth day Dean thinks he's more rested than he's been in his entire life. Him and Sam have eaten everything in sight and watched every movie on pay-per-view - including the porn - twice.   
  
He's lying on his bed with the pillows squished behind him, flipping through the late-night infomercials for the thousandth time in an hour. Sam's next to him - _really_ next to him, actually - his left leg pressed to Dean's right, their shoulders touching. Sam's head is slipping down, almost resting on Dean's shoulder, and if he starts drooling Dean's going to fucking brain him.   
  
But Sam's sleeping, is the thing, and even with nothing to do and no where to be but off the map for a while, Sam's still the worst sleeper Dean's ever seen. Dean falls asleep before Sam every night, and whenever he wakes up, Sam's already sitting up in bed, surfing the net on his laptop or playing a game of Solitaire. So for him to finally relax, to pass out on Dean's shoulder, well, fine. Dean can deal with a little drool.  
  
Sam's hand is on Dean's leg, and in his sleep his face twists up and he sighs. His thumb presses into the muscle of Dean's thigh. Dean's about to wake him when Sam sighs again and moves closer, his head slipping down onto Dean's chest. He licks his lips, and Dean doesn't think, just reaches over and brushes the hair back from Sam's face.  
  
Sam smiles, mumbles, "Dean," and keeps on sleeping.  
  
By the time Sam wakes up, the last infomercial has been over for hours, and the sun's nearly rising. His face is pressed against Dean's chest, one hand still curled around and under Dean's thigh. Sam lifts his head and blinks, staring at Dean like he's never seen him before.  
  
"Morning, Sleeping Beauty." Dean gives his shoulder a shove. "You slept any longer and I was going to start looking for a prince to come and try and wake you up."  
  
Sam keeps staring at him, eyes half-closed and expression fuzzy.  
  
Dean snaps his fingers in Sam's face. "Hey. You with me?"  
  
"Yeah." Sam trails off. Shakes his head. " _Hell_ , yeah." He looks at Dean from under his lashes, and his cheeks go pink, the corners of his mouth curling up in a smile.  
  
"Because you're acting like a freak." Dean shifts his leg trying to get Sam to move, but instead Sam moves _closer_ , his arm dragging over Dean's side. "Even more than usual, I mean."  
  
Sam just smiles again. "Don't worry, Dean. It's nothing."  
  
*  
  
Sam's freak routine lasts the rest of the day.   
  
At first, Dean ignores it. If Sam wants to stare at him like he's grown a third eye, let him. (Dean checked the bathroom mirror first, though, to make sure he didn't _actually_ grow a third eye. Because stranger things have happened.) But there's nothing different. Nothing special other than Dean's perfectly stunning good looks, like usual.   
  
He opens his mouth and checks his teeth in the mirror while Sam sits up on the bed and stares at him.   
  
Sam stares while Dean's watching TV. While he's cleaning his guns. While he's sitting with one leg up cutting his toenails. Normally his brother's not the chattiest guy in the world, but after a while the strong, silent, weirdo act gets to him.   
  
Dean folds his legs under himself and throws a pillow at Sam's head.   
  
"Dude." Sam catches the pillow, folds it in half and tucks is behind his head. The fucker.   
  
"Quit watching me, assmunch." Dean stands up and scratches his belly. Sam's eyes drop to where Dean's hands are and his cheeks turn pink. What the hell? "Hey. Hey. Sam." He snaps his fingers in front of Sam's face until he shakes his head and looks up. "Seriously, man, you all right?"  
  
Dean's been wearing the same t-shirt all day and it's starting to stink. He yanks it over his head from the back of the neck and tosses it across the room. His skin feels tight and itchy. He needs a shower or something.   
  
"I'm gonna take a shower," he says, and pulls his sweats down as he heads to the bathroom. Sam makes a weird, choking sound behind him, but Dean doesn't pay any attention. Just one more freak thing to add to the freaks list for the day.   
  
*  
  
The shower helps. Makes Dean feel more awake and able to deal with Sam's weird stares and mopey eyes if he has to. He dries off, rubs a towel over his head, then ties it around his waist. When he opens the bathroom door, steam pours out into the room.   
  
Dean doesn't see anything until there's an arm against his throat and a huge hand on his hip. He gets pushed back, slammed into the wall next to the bathroom door, and before he even has time to panic, the steam dissipates and Dean blinks up at Sam who's holding him there.   
  
Dean licks his lips. "Sam?"  
  
"Shut up," Sam mutters, then lowers his head and kisses him.   
  
Dean loses his breath so fast it's like a punch to the gut. He's damp and sticky from the shower and Sam's hands are hot, big and rough and sliding down Dean's throat to grab onto his shoulder and yank him closer.   
  
"Dean," Sam breathes, and Dean takes the opportunity to shove Sam back a step. His brother's watching him with dark eyes. When he licks his lips, it looks obscene.   
  
Dean narrows his eyes and whispers, "Christo."  
  
"I'm not possessed," Sam says. His cheeks are turning pink and his hands are steady as he unknots the towel from Dean's waist. Dean has a split second to process, holy fuck, Sam's _big_ , before Sam's grabbing Dean's hips and thighs, dragging him closer and murmuring, "I wanna try something," against Dean's ear.   
  
Dean wishes he could think for a second - just a fucking second - because something's _obviously_ very wrong with this whole situation. And maybe the two of them have a different idea of normal than everyone else, but even Dean knows that in no way is him standing bare-ass naked with Sam fully dressed and rubbing the palms of his hands over every inch of Dean's skin (his belly and chest and oh, holy _fuck_ Dean's not going to think about how fucking good that feels), normal. _Even_ for them.   
  
Dean thinks: Okay, not possession. A shapeshifter, maybe? Succubus. It has to be _something_.  
  
"What the fuck is with you, man?" Dean's voice breaks as Sam bites down on Dean's shoulder. Sam grunts and sucks harder, and Dean wants him off, wants to shove Sam away, punch his fucking face in or douse him with holy water or _something_ , but he has a problem.   
  
And that's his goddamn _dick_.   
  
Apparently, no one told Dean's dick that Sam isn't supposed to be sucking on his throat and touching his skin and doing all sorts of amazing things with his fingers and tongue. No one told Dean's dick that even the idea of this is fucked up and wrong. That if it wanted some action other than Victoria Secrets catalog or bad porn on the TV it could have given Dean some clue other than jumping up into his brother's hand when he slides it over Dean's hips, fingers dipping low to tease his balls.   
  
No one told Dean's dick to stay the fuck down, so when Sam breathes against his throat, and starts jerking him off (long, slow strokes just the way Dean likes and maybe he shouldn't have whacked off so much with Sam in the same room. Maybe that whole thing is coming back to bite Dean in the ass right fucking now) his dick is more than happy. It fills and stretches and fits itself into Sam's hand and Dean doesn't know who he wants to kill more: his crazy brother or his own cock.   
  
"You gotta stop." Dean's argument sounds weak, even to himself. The way Sam laughs Dean's pretty sure it sounds weak to him as well.  
  
"No," Sam says, and curls his fingers tighter.   
  
The problem is that there's only so long Dean's brain's going to be able to function on the _no, Sam, this is wrong, stop_ track. Pretty soon his body is going to tell his brain to fuck off, a hand is a hand, and Sam's is a _hell_ of a lot better than most.   
  
Not that Dean's thinking about how good it is. Because that would be wrong.   
  
Sam though - Sam's really getting into it. The button on his jeans digs into Dean's hip, the rough denim scraping against Dean's leg. There are wet patches on Sam's chest, the water from Dean's skin soaking thorough his thin t-shirt. He twists his fist and Dean's eyes roll back because, god, wow, that feels goddamn _good_ , and Sam the smug bastard, smiles against Dean's neck.   
  
"You like that?" Sam asks. His teeth are sharp against Dean's skin, his mouth wet and wide, sucking blood to the surface. Dean slaps his hand against Sam's back, but all it does is have Sam pressing in more, closer, and Dean's done. Game over, time's up. When Sam lifts his head and blinks at Dean, curious eyes tipped at the corners, and says, "Show me what you want," Dean's only answer is to yank at Sam's jeans and shove them down his hips.   
  
"Gimme your hand," he grunts, then curls his fingers over Sam's and presses both their dicks together.   
  
Sam's hard as stone, as hard as _Dean_ , and the feel of them, both their cocks pressing and rubbing together, Sam's fingers tight and curled over them under Dean's hand is pure fucking bliss. Dean can't remember the last time he felt anything this good, ever. When Sam yanks his head forward and kisses him again, wet and dirty, tongue sliding over his teeth and against the roof of his mouth, Dean doesn't have any choice other than to close his eyes and come.   
  
"Dean, _Dean_ , yeah, I want to-"  
  
Their hands are slick and Dean tightens his grip around Sam, jerking him faster, rougher. Sam's hand falls off and slaps against the wall, and Dean dips his head and bites under Sam's chin, up his jaw. He sucks the skin under Sam's ear behind his teeth hard enough to bruise until Sam is shaking and coming all over Dean's fingers and belly.   
  
Dean waits until Sam's done before grabbing the towel off the floor and cleaning them both off. Sam's quiet as he wipes his hands. His face is flushed, neck and shoulders blushing and pink, and when he smiles at Dean, sweet and meek and normal like this was just like any other fucking day, Dean tilts his head, smiles back, and punches his brother square in the jaw.  
  
*  
  
"I can't believe you hit me." Sam's sitting on the edge of the bed in his t-shirt and boxers with a cold washcloth pressed to his jaw. Dean walks over, moves the washcloth and smiles at the purpling bruise.   
  
"Yeah, well I can't believe you…did _that_ , either," he says, waving a hand in the air. He'd pulled on a pair of sweatpants after Sam's little attack in the hallway, and now he flops down on the bed and stares up at the ceiling. "Seriously, was it some kind of spell or something?"  
  
"No," Sam sulks.   
  
"You didn't get possessed? Eat or drink something you shouldn't have?"  
  
Dean's not sure Sam is listening until the washcloth comes flying across the room and hits him in the face. "You're an asshole," Sam mutters.  
  
Dean just doesn't get it. Which he tells Sam. Repeatedly.   
  
"Oh, come on." Sam clicks the TV on and flips channels angrily. "So it's better to jerk off to Dumb Debbie-"  
  
" _Wet Wendy_ ," Dean corrects.   
  
"But not me. Fine."  
  
Dean sits up. Blinks. His brother has honestly lost his mind. "Dude, you're my _brother_."  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. "Duh."  
  
"You don't see how that's fucked up? Because if not, I can explain it, Sammy." Dean lies back and folds his arms under his head. He's not going to freak out about it - what happened happened. But if Sam needs a refresher course on why it's not cool to fuck your brother, Dean'll be more than happy to give it to him.   
  
Or so he thinks. In the next minute, though, Sam's on the floor next to Dean's bed, tugging at Dean's hips and yanking his sweatpants down and off.   
  
"Sam!"  
  
"I know I'm your brother, asshole," Sam says, voice dark and gritty. He pulls Dean until his hips are at the edge of the bed, his feet planted on the floor. Dean grabs at the bedspread, twisting his hands in the heavy brocade, and sucks in a breath.   
  
"Jesus, Sammy."  
  
"I know everything about you, Dean." Sam's hands skate down Dean's hips. His fingers pressing into skin. "I know how hard you like it. I know the sounds you make."  
  
"Sam-"  
  
"I know that if I touch you like this," Sam's fingers press against the skin under his balls. Dean lifts himself up, stares down his chest at Sam who's grinning at him, slow and wicked. "You'll go crazy. Right, Dean?"  
  
Dean would love to argue, but he can't. Sam knows every fucking thing about him, right down to the fact that Dean would never lie to him. He can't.   
  
"You want this, right?" Sam's hair tickles Dean's belly, and Dean can't stop the whimper that bubbles up the back of his throat. He twists his hands and Sam's hair and pushes him down. Waits to feel Sam's mouth - the wet heat of his breath against Dean's hip and groin - before yanking him closer to Dean's dick.   
  
"Come on, Dean. Tell me."  
  
Dean can feel the words against his cock. Can feel Sam breathing against him. The quick flicks of his tongue. His fingers pressing up and back, slick now, wet and pressing against him, slipping in then pulling back out.   
  
Sam's playing him like a pro. Like they've done this a thousand times and Sam's learned everything about him there is to know. Dean lifts one leg onto the bed, spreading himself wider for Sam's tongue and fingers and mouth, and gives up. He doesn't know where this came from, or why Sam wants it, but Dean's done arguing with him.   
  
"Yeah, okay. Fine, Sam. Just fucking do it."   
  
Sam slides his finger in deeper and Dean can feel him smile against Dean's skin.   
  
*  
  
Dean's too fucked out to get up and put the money outside for the pizza guy so he makes Sam do it. Sam bitches and complains and Dean thinks how it's nice to know that some things don't change.   
  
Over slices of pepperoni and olive pizza and a bottle of ginger ale, Dean balls up his napkin and hits Sam square in the head.   
  
"Seriously," Dean says. "What the fuck brought all that on before?"  
  
Sam swallows. Licks sauce off his bottom lip. "Was bored," he says with a shrug. "Figured we needed something new to kill some time."  
  
Dean can't believe it. He'd choke to death if he didn't think it was so cliché. "And the thought of buying a board game didn't occur to you?"  
  
"This seemed like more fun." Sam says simply.   
  
Dean rubs a hand over his face. He thinks about all the fucked up shit they've seen and done over the years. About how this pretty much trumps them all. About how after this, nothing will ever, _ever_ be the same. Him and Sam are still on the road together - on the _run_ together - and have to stay in some pretty close quarters for a while. Sharing rooms, bathrooms, the front seat of the car…  
  
Then Dean moves and feels the burn in his ass from Sam's fingers and tongue. He thinks about Sam fucking him. About him pinning Dean's wrists to the bed, dragging his tongue over every inch of Dean's skin until Dean's cursing and biting and moaning for more. Thinks about all the things he can do to _Sam_. His smooth skin and hard cock and wide mouth. He thinks about the two of them and _nothing_ to do but touch each other. Fuck each other and make each other come for hours, _days_ on end.   
  
Heat flares low in Dean's belly. They could do this _all the time_ if they want, and the way Sam's watching him, dark eyes and shallow breaths, Dean has the feeling he's come to the same conclusion Dean has.   
  
Dean grins and knocks the pizza box to the floor. "Maybe you have a point, Sammy," he says, as he pushes Sam down onto the bed. Sam laughs, short and breathless, and Dean thinks that maybe his brother was right. Maybe his brother's actually a _genius_. "I think this might be the best plan you've ever had," Dean tells him, and unbuttons Sam's jeans.   
  
  
-end-


End file.
